Unplanned Poetry

Stiletto Sunset


I am woman, middle-aged
I am not:

a mannequin,
for I have no stilettos
(or is that I am not a woman of the night?)

a Twiggy,
for my belly bumps like an almost hidden pregnancy
(or is that I am merely normal for a woman of my age?)

a disgustingly sloppy teenage boy,
for my pants won't hang off my butt(or is it that my pants are too small to traverse down my hips once they are secured in place?)

an Amazon beauty,
for my stature is small
(or is it that I was merely not strikingly beautiful?)

a teenage girl,
for my face is no longer covered in acne
(or is it that we call hormonal breakouts menopause now?)

I am not a screaming baby,
for I am 50 plus and wail within
(or is it that I have not the strength to scream?

I am not a skilled poet,
for these words suck
(or is it that I am merely having fun and not trying to be poetic?)

I am woman, middle aged, armed with poetic license
and truths stand here mixed sparingly with lies.


Marcia
03/11/07
03/21/07


Current Realities

You, go away,
Leave me to my current realties:

my big butt fights
the flaccid muscles in my arms
as they struggle to stretch
the stronger denim over my hips

my fallen arches support
only dulled shoes with heels
formed from flattened stilettos of my youth

my stomach looks as if
I have pushed it out in
my belly dancer's roll
hundreds of times too many

my clothes hang from
my shoulders, by design to
announce my approaching age.

You, come back,
for my current realities
are now,
also yours.

Marcia
03/11/07
03/21/07